Garden of Simple
by SomewhereApart
Summary: For OQ Prompt Party. #74 Enchanted Forest, s3, OQ secret candlelight dinner.


_For the OQ Prompt Party: #74 Enchanted Forest, s3, OQ secret candlelight dinner._

* * *

Robin misses the forest – especially on nights like these. Clear, cool nights where the moon is a heavy, glowing orb up above, and the stars scatter pinpricks in the darkness of the heavens. It's bright enough one could stroll the forest by moonlight alone – something he'd loved doing, before. He'd enjoyed the solitude, the peace, the feeling of being a part of the world just like any other beast that walks or crawls.

But there are dangers now – brought close to home by their returned travelers. Winged monkeys that swoop and snatch, and midnight wandering is ill-advised. They've retreated indoors, into the safety of the Queen's castle. A laughable statement once – who'd have ever imagined finding refuge there?

And yet, they have. He and his motley crew of ruffians have taken over a series of rooms on a lower floor, strung it with hammocks and bed pallets (they're not much for creature comforts, indoors or no), and begun to take regular meals in a great hall next to the very royals they once would have plundered.

It's funny how life works out, isn't it?

And it has its benefits certainly – last week had been one of near-constant drizzle mixed with bursts of downpour, and bitter winds all the while. He can't say he'd missed their encampment, then – not when he and his son were nestled in warm bedclothes by a roaring fire, Roland sipping heated broth while Robin drank from a flask of whiskey he'd been gifted by Prince David. Warm, full bellies, and warm, dry clothes are a good sight better than huddling beneath canvas tents and trying to keep any sort of flame over hissing, sputtering embers in the forest.

And then there's her. The Queen herself.

Robin supposes he shouldn't consider her a perk of castle life – she's not a thing, after all, not a pretty bauble, but a person. And what a person she is, full of life, and fire, with an acid tongue, a quick wit he quite enjoys matching with barbs of his own. And she's lovely, absolutely lovely, to look at.

He's been caught staring more than once by John, or Tuck, or Much, his gaze riveted to the shape of her frown as she takes bites of venison as though they're as boring as whatever tale Princess Snow is regaling her with at the royal table. How someone can be so surly and so pretty at the same time, he'll never fathom, but he's drawn to her like moth to flame again and again.

And then there are the moments that she smiles – with sharp malice after she lands a particularly sound insult, or (his favorite) the soft curves of lip she saves for Roland and Roland only. To have said she has a soft spot for children was an understatement – in Robin's experience, they seem to be the only thing to bring her any joy.

So yes, he does consider her a perk of castle living. Her lively wit, and her secret smiles, and the dark coffee color of her eyes. Privately, he does.

And yet, on nights like these – the clear, cool ones – life inside these castle walls simply isn't enough. He feels confined here, trapped. Feels the urge to prowl, if only because he's not allowed to simply roam.

He's not foolish enough to leave the grounds on his own, but Roland is tucked dreaming away beneath his covers, and Robin is restless. So he heads for the nearest thing to a forest he can find within the fortified walls – the Queen's garden.

Her prized apple tree lives in an upper courtyard, a place of prominence, but it's not the only vine she tends. There's another grove on the castle's eastern side, a sizeable patch of land gated and walled off, said walls now covered entirely by creeping ivy that had grown thick and lush during the years of the curse. There are rosebushes there, and flowering trees, tall shrubbery and an old weeping willow that Roland loves to play hide and seek in.

It's not a forest, but it'll do. It still smells of green things, and there are frogs that croak merrily in its depths, and birds that nest happily in its trees and sing their songs during the daytime. If he faces the right direction, keeps the high spires of the castle at his back, he can pretend he's not walled in by stone and circumstance.

The old gate creaks as he enters, a low whine that's echoed by one of those friendly frogs, and Robin smiles as he lets it swing shut behind him and takes a deep breath in. The chilly night air fills his lungs, bringing with it the scent of night-blooming flowers that he knows full well are out of season right now, and yet, somehow they flourish here. (It is the _Queen's_ garden, after all, and it bends ever to her will – he's fairly certain the hush that falls over him as that gate clicks closed is not simply the sound-dampening effects of ivy.)

Something in his middle settles, and that part of him that needs to feel the softness of earth beneath his boots bears down just a little into each blessedly springy step as he leaves the footpath and trods over well-watered grass. He doesn't have a destination in mind, per se, circles the outer edge, and runs his fingers over the night-chilled growth of ivy, feels the pillowy roughness of a patch of stone covered over in thick moss, and every bit of it soothes that restless heart of his.

He visits her roses, the red ones almost black under the light of the moon, and the white ones nearly glowing.

And then he takes a trip to that old willow and its drooping, leafy curtains. There's a bench beneath it, hidden in close near the trunk, and he's a mind to sit for a spell and let the foliage engulf him. To pretend he's high up in some old canopy in Sherwood, free as a bird.

Or maybe just to peek out the parted swath and admire the garden as a whole, the lights of the castle looming above it, yes, but not quite managing to touch.

It's not until he's ducked beneath that very canopy of leaves that he becomes aware his idea wasn't a novel one.

He doesn't see her dress (it's black) or the moonlit pale wash of her skin (that bench is well ensconced in shadow) – it's the fire he sees first. A sudden, orange bloom of it clutched in her palm that makes him yelp rather embarrassingly and stagger backward.

She smirks – none of the ire he might expect from a Queen interrupted, simply amusement at her own ability to call up a fright in him. To catch him unawares.

Robin presses a hand to his hammering heart, and forces a smile in return (it doesn't take much effort, summoning a smile for Regina), speaking over the gentle nighttime chorus of nature to offer her, "Apologies, milady. I thought I was alone."

"It's Your Majesty," she corrects, as always, but without a bit of heat, and then, "And I noticed."

A flick of her wrist and the flame in her palm is gone – or not gone, but it flickers into pieces, little wafts of flame that wrap slowly with thick glass until they're each cupped in a little jar. Robin watches, rapt, as silvery chains grow link by link from their rims, up, up into the darkness. After a moment the little jars seem to cease hovering, settling into their own weight and swinging lightly from their chains.

He's never been too terribly trusting of magic, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't fascinated by her little displays.

"Is that safe?" he wonders, his heart kicking up again as he catches sight of her shifting to make room beside her in the bench.

They're not friends, Robin and the Queen, and the clear invitation seems out of character.

Out of character, but not unwelcome, and Robin certainly won't refuse. He approaches slowly, but casually, feeling a bit like he's about to spook a momentarily friendly bear.

She's squinting slightly up at their makeshift lanterns, and from this close and in the glowing lamplight, he can see the rise and fall of her shoulder as she shrugs.

"They're well-contained and it's not a terribly warm flame," she concludes, as he sinks to the stone beside her. "Not much wind tonight. We should be fine."

"Mm," he hums in acknowledgement, leaning back against the trunk of the old tree and gazing upward at the flickering lights, if only because he's afraid looking too long at her (what he'd truly like to do). They're getting along quite nicely at the moment, and he wouldn't want to disturb whatever mood she's in by staring at the wonder of her profile by candlelight. Not just yet, at least.

For a minute, they just sit in silence. Just them and the frogs, and the crickets, and an owl hooting somewhere not too far off. Robin thinks perhaps they'll sit there like that all evening (and perhaps they should, he really wouldn't mind it), but it seems a shame to waste such a pleasant mood on silence, so he breaks it, finally.

"So," he begins, rolling his gaze toward her and nearly losing his train of thought in the flickering line of brow, nose, lips he shouldn't want to kiss (but does), and chin. He clears his throat lightly and continues, "I know why I went wandering in a dark garden on my own tonight – I needed a bit of fresh air. What's your reason for sitting here, all alone in the dark, Your Majesty?"

Those kissable lips curve (she's still looking up, up, at her own little flames), and she sinks back against the trunk beside him, a flick of her wrist illuminating a little table he'd not noticed sitting on her far side. It's not very large, set only for one, with a plate piled high with fruits and meat, and roasted vegetables. A goblet of wine, and a small plate of sweets.

"I was having a late dinner, away from Snow White's incessant need to party plan," she tells him, dryly.

And, "Ah, yes," he smiles. "She has been on about that lately, hasn't she?"

Regina _Mm_ s, and her eyes roll heavenward. The princess has been insisting on a ball to honor the change of seasons, something festive to keep morale up around the castle. It doesn't surprise him overly much that Regina isn't eager to help throw the little soiree.

Still, that's not what has him most distracted at the moment. No, that's the fact that she was, "Eating in the dark?"

It's a question somewhat unspoken – why on earth would she be taking her meal in near blackness, even if she was dining alone.

One perfectly shaped brow rises up at that, and she tells him archly, "I wasn't," smirking to add, "I had the candle lit, until someone came wandering through the garden gate."

Robin has the decency to look guilty for a moment, offering up an, "Ah," and an, "I'm sorry, then. I've disturbed your meal. I could go, if you'd prefer."

Idiot. He shouldn't have offered – she'll surely take the out and send him packing.

But the night is full of surprises, it seems, because Regina only shakes her head and tells him, "It's alright. It seems I'm rather poor company for myself tonight; I wouldn't mind if you… stayed."

Ah. Well, that explains her willingness to be sociable, then.

"Well, then it's good I haven't had my fill of the night air yet," is all he says in reply, hunkering down a little more comfortably into the bark against his back.

She hums a little, and adds, "And besides, this is far too much food for one person."

He tilts his head to spy her plate again, and it's not, really, not at all. But then, she eats like a bird most days. Not that he's noticed. (He's most certainly noticed.)

Before he can blink, the candle winks out, the table with it, a dark swirl and the sharp scent of impending rain, the hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end for a moment, and then the table is in front of them, candle and all, a second goblet of wine beside the first.

"Help me finish it?" she requests, and, well, who Robin of Locksley to refuse the delicacies offered by a Queen?


End file.
